


Rest in Peace

by JustPlainJennie



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Matricide, Patricide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustPlainJennie/pseuds/JustPlainJennie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's coming home from University, but it's the start of the outbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest in Peace

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Zombies, Run! Also, many thanks to my beta, Andrea.

Sam pushes the fringe out of his eyes as he scans for his laptop cable. After a moment of minor panic he finds it under a few dirty pairs of pants. Mentally he ticks off the necessities he’s packed: laptop, laptop cable, toothbrush, trousers, shirts, pants, dirty laundry…

Pulling the zip around his duffel bag he throws it and his laundry over his shoulder and double checks that his mobile and wallet are in his pockets. It appears that he’s ready to go home for the last holiday before he graduates, but the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach suggests otherwise.

He’s going to have to tell them.

The mirror on the back of his door shows that his face is betraying his fear. Forcing the edges of his mouth into a smile only serves to make him look mad. He goes for serious instead. Better.

“Mum, Dad,” he clears his throat, “I’ve known for a long time I shouldn’t be an engineer,” Sam’s mouth slips into a frown and he mumbles, “It just so happens my professors agree with me.”

Just as Sam opens his mouth to try again he feels the vibration of his phone, “Hey, Mum,” he chirps brightly, shoving apprehension into the pit of his stomach, “I’ll be right down.”

Sam’s mother greets him as she always does, with kisses and hugs and “I’ve missed you!” like she hasn’t seen him in years. 

His father has his customary greeting as well, “Son,” he adjusts his rear-view mirror.

“Dad.” Sam pushes aside the feeling that his father already knows. Well, he doesn’t know this specifically. He does know that Sam is a failure in general, but he’s always known that.

The duffel bag and laundry are thrown in the boot and Sam slides into the back as his mum takes the seat next to his father.

“On to get Immy, then?” Sam perks up at the thought of his sister. He knows he will be compared to her, but that isn’t her fault. She can at least distract his parents with her many accomplishments long enough for him to slip away and meet up with some of his mates from school.

Mum turns around, frowning, as Dad pulls away. “Oh, I’m sorry petal, did we not tell you? Imogen’s—” Mum glances at Dad and softens her voice to nearly a whisper, “She’s gone to visit Martyn’s family in Leeds.” A gruff grunt from his father says it’s not something we’ll talk about again, at least not with Dad around.

Great. Not only will Sam have to tell his parents he’s going to fail his course, his sister won’t even be around to distract them or play mediator. Only his mother will stand between him and his father’s wrath, and she makes a flimsy shield at best.

They spend the rest of the car ride quietly listening to Radio 4. Sam uses this time to plan and re-plan the conversation that will, if all goes well, cause a chasm to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

 

Sam’s setting up his computer when his mother calls to him from the kitchen, “Sam, Petal, is sausage and mash okay for dinner?” He loves being home.

“Yeah, Mum!” he calls back and finishes putting his clean clothes in drawers. His bedroom is just as he’d left it, preserved as The Museum of Sam’s Oddities. Posters of games and films decorate the walls. His role-playing dice and books are tucked away safely on his shelf. Imogen’s room, he notices as he passes through the hall, is more of a trophy room. 

Mum rolls her eyes at Sam as he dumps the bag of laundry in front of the washing machine. “You’re not even going to sort it, are you?”

“Mum,” he starts, hand on heart, “I wouldn’t deprive you of the joy of doing my laundry.” The smirk on her face tells him he’ll get away with it again. Mums.

Sam sits down at the kitchen table, chatting as Mum cooks dinner and sorts out his laundry. Radio 4 is murmuring quietly in the background.

“Your father’s been very busy at the hospital for the past few days. He’s had to go in to give them an extra hand.” She threw darks and lights into their respective baskets. “There’s some sort of rabies going around.”

“It’s just going to be like bird flu all over again.” Sam begins to help her, against his better judgement. “People are just panicking over nothing.”

Mum purses her lips as she throws a crusty sock in with the whites, “I dunno, Sam, your dad seems to be taking this a lot more seriously. Even brought home some surgical masks for us to wear.”

Sam throws a pair of pants into the darks basket, “It can’t be that—”

“Oh!” his mum reaches over to turn the radio up, “They’re talking about it now!”

“—has called the outbreak ‘an epidemic’. First symptoms include cough, red eyes, and a very high fever. Although there is a high mortality rate, doctors predict that with containment this should result in—”

The sound of the front door slamming shut draws their attention away from the report. Sam’s mum turns the radio down and his father’s footsteps slowly click through the hall.

“You’re home early!” She calls and opens the refrigerator to get more sausages, “I wasn’t expecting you home for dinner, I’ll just throw some more—”

The look on his face stops her. His eyes are wide and the colour has drained from his cheeks. She leaves the sausages on the counter and rushes over to him, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Brushing her off he takes a seat next to Sam, “It’s not rabies.”

Glancing at the still mumbling radio Mum says, “Cuppa?” and hurries to make one without acknowledging her husband’s nod. 

Sam can’t help but stare at his father’s hands. They’re shaking. His father’s hands are shaking. The man who could make mountains seem unstable is shaking. The mugs his mother places on the table are gratefully received.

She sits beside Sam, “Is it…what did you say?…Japanese encephalitis?”

The slow way he shakes his head back and forth makes Sam wonder if his father is even listening, “Dad, what is it?”

Making eye contact with his father is never easy for Sam, but right now it’s impossible to look away. “We’re going north.”

A burst of nervous laughter from his mother breaks the tension. “Dad,” he can’t help but laugh too, “we’re not going north.”

His father’s palms slam on the table, “We are.” he growls, “Don’t ask me to explain, but,” he takes a deep breath, “we are.”

Mum grasps Dad’s still shaking hands, “Darling,” she’s smiling at him in a very understanding way, “we can’t just go north. The sausages are still in the—oh!” she bolts up to put Dad’s in with the rest. “The sausages are still in the oven.”

Sam can see the wheels clicking in his father’s head, “Fine, then. After dinner we’ll go to Tesco, Home Base…get some supplies. Then we’ll head north.” Mum finishes chopping up the potatoes. “Your brother wouldn’t mind if we visited, would he?”

“Love,” one by one she very calmly plops the potatoes into boiling water, “you really want to leave work? Leave our home? All over…what? A little virus?”

“It’s not what you think, Linda. Today at the hospital…the morgue…” he stares vacantly. “It’s much, much worse.”

 

Mum is finally convinced that they are better safe than sorry over dinner. A quick and awkward phone-call to her brother allows them to pretend they are simply going on holiday.

Sam packs non-perishables into a storage container while he waits for his parents to get home from the shops. The radio drones on about the outbreak.

“—is now being declared a Category 5 Pandemic. Repeat, the virus now known as ZN1 is now being declared a Category 5 Pandemic. Doctors advise to avoid all contact with the infected, wash your hands frequently—”

The sound of the car pulling up the drive distracts Sam from his packing duties. His parent’s shouldn’t be home yet. Peeking out the window he sees his mother in the driver’s seat. She never drives.

As he moves outside to help his parents with their haul he knows something is wrong. His mother doesn’t even look at him as she scurries around the bonnet to open the passenger door.

“Mum?” she helps his father out. Dad’s even paler than before. Blood stains his clothes, and his mother’s cashmere scarf is wrapped around his wrist. “Mum, what happened?”

“We weren’t the only ones who thought it might be getting worse, Sam,” his father answers. “There were a lot of people out. One of them was—” he breaks into a coughing fit.

“Dad!” Sam can’t stop the panic from taking over his voice, “Dad, what happened?!”

“One of them bit your father, Petal. He’ll be all right, just needs some rest. Why don’t you pack up the car while I take care of him?”

“But mum—”

“Do as your mother says, son.”

And he does. His mother puts his father to bed, tends his wounds and brings him tea. 

They managed to get a few supplies while they were out: some rope, a first-aid kit, a shovel, and an axe.

Sam loses himself in packing the car up. It feels like playing a game of Tetris. His dad never let him do it when they went on family holidays.

Glancing up at the window Sam thinks about how this virus was enough to scare his father into an impromptu visit to the in-laws. It must be serious.

Sam packs the last bag and locks the front door behind him. “Mum?” he calls upstairs, “Mum? You alright?”

“Fine, Petal!” she calls back with a strained cheerfulness, “Just keeping your father company while he recovers. Why don’t you play one of your games? He’ll be up and about in no time.”

Too worried to play, Sam switches on the telly.

“—are no longer living. Please remember, these are only the initial reports, but we advise that you stay in your homes. If a loved one is infected, keep as little contact with them as possible. If their condition is fatal, damage to the brain should—” the newscaster mutters to someone off camera, “That can’t be right. Reanimation?” he clears his throat, “Apologies. Damage to the brain should prevent or stop reanimation.”

Glancing upstairs, Sam isn’t sure he wants his mother to be playing nurse at the moment. As he creeps towards their room, Sam hears his father having another coughing fit.

“Mum?” he taps on the door, “Mum? Maybe you should let Dad alone. You don’t want to catch…” catch what? A virus that will kill and reanimate her? It sounds ridiculous. He starts again, “Mum, why don’t you come out? I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“That sounds lovely, Petal.” Her voice sounds hoarse. She’s been crying. He cracks the door open and peeks inside. His father lies in fresh clothes with a bandage tied around his wrist. Mum’s sitting at the edge of the bed, stroking his hand. “If you could bring one up, a cup of tea would be lovely.”

The sound of the kettle boiling comforts him somehow. It’s so normal. It reminds him that he needs to tell his parents that he’s failing. Sam frowns.

He makes a cup of milky tea for himself and brings up his mother’s milk one sugar, and his father’s black. Mum takes the mugs gratefully and resumes stroking his father’s head, muttering comforting words.

Sam falls asleep on the couch, watching the latest coverage of the ZN1 virus. 

 

“Sam!” that’s his mother screaming, “SAM!”

“Mum!” he rolls off the couch and scrambles up the stairs. “Mum! What’s wrong? Is Dad—? What happened?” he tries the door handle but it’s locked. He bangs his fists against the door, “Mum?!”

“Petal!” her voice is shaky and her attempts to cover her panic have failed utterly. “Why don’t you get that axe out of the car? Just in case.”

“Mum, I’m not going to—“

“Sam your father’s not well! Just—go!”

He only hesitates a moment before following his mother’s instructions. It’s still dark outside, but neighbours are outside stuffing their little economy cars to the brim. He pulls out the axe and quickly returns to his mother.

“I’ve got it, Mum.” A low growling pricks his ears. Something crashes to the floor of his parent’s bedroom and then there’s a slow dragging noise. “Mum?” he croaks.

The moaning becomes louder and then there’s a loud THUD! against the door. Sam tightly grips the handle of the axe, raising it just slightly.

“Dad?” he whispers through the tightness in his throat, “Mum?” THUD! THUD! “Mum! Get out of there!” The noise becomes louder and louder, punctuated with inhuman moans. Finally the door cracks open and his father bursts through.

Sam scurries down the stairs in terror, but he can’s stop himself from waiting for his father to follow after. It doesn’t take long, but it’s not in the way he expected. His father tumbles down the stairs, and Sam’s sure he can hear bones breaking as he hits the bottom in a crumpled mess.

Even having heard all the warnings, Sam is compelled to creep closer to Dad, axe at the ready. He must be dead. He couldn’t have survived that fall. Is his father one of the infected? The reanimated?

The man’s head is twisted at an unnatural angle. One of the bones from his forearm is poking straight through the skin. But Sam doesn’t truly feel terrified until he hears that moan again. Those eyes aren’t his father’s anymore, glassy, white, vacant. He’s one of them now, and his teeth are snapping toward Sam.

Bringing the axe up above his head Sam feels the tears prick his eyes. “It’s not Dad,” he mutters to himself, “It’s not, it’s not, it’s—” he feels the axe’s weight fall effortlessly, hears the wet crunch.

Pulling his weapon free, Sam numbly makes his way up the stairs. He pushes the shattered remains of his parent’s bedroom door out of the way to reveal the remains of his mother. A crimson halo surrounds her head and neck.

“Mum?” This must be a dream. She moans. “Mum?” he tries again. Her eyes open, white, unseeing. He makes sure she rests in peace.


End file.
